War and Remembrance (99 page)

Shaken at finding these fresh words from his dead son, Pug avidly read them. Warren had always hated to write letters. He had filled the first page by recounting Vic’s bright doings and sayings, and housekeeping problems in Hawaii. On the second page he had warmed up:

I fly dawn patrol, so I had better sign off, Mom. Sorry I haven’t written more often. I usually manage to see Dad when we’re in port. I assume he keeps you up to date. Also I can’t write much about what I do.

But I’ll say this. Every time I take off over the water, and every time I come in for a deck landing, I thank my stars that I made it through Pensacola. There are just a handful of naval aviators in this war. When Vic grows up and
reads all about it, and he looks at the gray-headed old crock he calls Dad, I don’t think he’ll be ashamed of the part I played.

I certainly hope that by the time Vic’s a man the world will be getting rid of war. This exercise used to be fun, and maybe even profitable for the victor, I don’t know. But mine’s the last generation that can get a kick out of combat, Mom, it’s all getting too impersonal, and complicated, and costly, and deadly. People have to figure out a saner way to run this planet. Armed robbers like the Germans and the Japs create problems, but hereafter they’ll have to be snuffed out before they get rolling.

So I almost hate to confess how much fun it’s been. I hope my son never knows the fear and the glory of diving a plane into AA fire. It’s a hell of a stupid way to make a living. But now that I’m doing it, I have to tell you I wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in China. I’d like to see Vic become a politician and work at straightening the world out. I may even have a shot at it myself when all this is over, and cut a trail for him. Meantime, dawn patrol.

Love,

Warren

Pug closed the album, tossed off his second drink, and passed his hand over the rough leather as over the cheek of a child. Turning off the lights, he trudged upstairs to the bedroom. Warren’s mother was asleep as before, on her back, the pretty profile cut off by the grotesque hair bag. He stared at her as though she were a stranger. How could she have endured putting that album together? It was a wonderful job, like everything she did. He could not yet trust himself to speak his son’s name aloud, and she had done all that: dug up the mementos, faced them, handled them, made a nice ornamental arrangement of them.

Pug got into bed, face buried in the pillow, to let the whiskey whirl him down into a few more hours of oblivion.

T
HE
broad gold admiral’s stripe on Russell Carton’s sleeve was very shiny. His overheated little office in the west wing of the White House was crusted with many paint jobs, the latest oyster gray. This newly minted rear admiral was only two Academy classes senior to Pug. The face was jowlier, the body thicker than in the days when Carton had marched by on the Annapolis parade ground shouting orders to his battalion. He had been stiff then and he was stiff now. Seated at a metal desk under a large autographed picture of the President, he shook hands without rising, and made pointless chitchat, not mentioning the Nimitz request. So Pug decided to risk a probe. “Admiral, did BuPers notify you of a dispatch from Cincpac about me?”

“Well, yes.” Guarded and grudging answer.

“Then the President knows that Admiral Nimitz wants me for his staff?”

“Henry, my advice to you is simply to go in there and listen when summoned,” Carton said testily. “Admiral Standley is with the President now. Also Mr. Hopkins and Admiral Leahy.” He pulled a basket of correspondence forward. “Now until we’re buzzed, I do have these letters to get out.”

Pug had his answer; the President did not know. The wait went by without another word from Carton while Pug reviewed his situation and planned his tactics. In over a year he had received no comment on his battlefront report to Harry Hopkins from Moscow, nor a reply to his letter to the President about the evidence of a Jewish massacre in Minsk. He had long since concluded that that letter had finished him with the White House, showing him up as a sentimental meddler in matters not his concern. That had not bothered him much. He had never sought the role of a minor presidential emissary, and had not relished it. Evidently old Admiral Stand-ley was behind this White House summons. The countering tactic must be simple: disclose the Nimitz dispatch to nullify Standley, pull out and stay out of the President’s field of force, and return to the Pacific.

The buzzer sounded twice. “That’s us,” said Carton. The White House hallways and stairways appeared quiet and unchanged, the calm at the eye of the hurricane. Secretaries and uniformed orderlies moved softly at a peacetime pace. In the Oval Office the gadgets and ship models cluttering the big
desk did not seem to have been moved in nearly two years. But Franklin Roosevelt was much altered: the gray hair thinner, the eyes filmy in purple pouches, the whole aspect strikingly aged. Harry Hopkins, slouching waxen-faced in an armchair, wearily waved at Pug.
The
two admirals emblazoned with gold and ribbons, sitting rigidly on a couch, barely glanced at him.

Roosevelt’s tired big-jawed face took on lively pleasure as Victor Henry came in with Carton. “Well, Pug, old top!” The voice was rich, lordly, Harvardish, like all the boring radio comedians’ imitations. “So the Japs made you swim for it, eh?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

“That’s my favorite exercise, you know, swimming,” Roosevelt said with a waggish grin. “It’s good for my health. However, I like to pick my own time and place.”

Nonplussed for a moment, Pug realized that the heavy pleasantry was intended as a kindness. Roosevelt’s eyebrows were expectantly raised for his answer. He forced the lightest riposte he could think of. “Mr. President, I agree it was an ill-timed swim, but it was pretty good for my own health.”

“Ha, ha!” Roosevelt threw back his head and laughed with gusto, whereupon the others also laughed a little. “Well put! Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?” He delivered this as though it were another joke, and the others laughed again. Russell Carton withdrew. The President’s expressive face went grave. “Pug, I regret the loss of that grand ship, and of all those brave men. The
Northampton
gave a bully account of herself, I know that. I’m terribly glad you came away safe. You must know Admiral Leahy” — Roosevelt’s lean, dry-looking chief of staff gave Pug a wooden nod suited to his four stripes and sunken ship — “and of course Bill Stand-ley. Bill’s been singing your praises ever since you went with him to Moscow.”

“Hello, Henry,” said Admiral Standley. Leathery, wizened, a bulky hearing aid in his ear, his thin lipless lower jaw thrust out over a corded, wattled neck, he looked a bit like an angry tortoise.

“You know, Admiral Standley grew so fond of the Russians on that Harriman mission, Pug” — Roosevelt signalled another joke with arched eyebrows — “that I had to send him back to Moscow as ambassador, just to keep him happy! And though he’s been home on leave, he misses them so much he’s hurrying back there tomorrow. Right, Bill?”

“Right as rain, Chief.” The tone was coarsely sarcastic.

“How did you like the Russians, Pug?”

“I was impressed by them, Mr. President.”

“Oh? Well, other people occasionally have been, too. What impressed you most about them?”

“Their numbers, sir, and their willingness to die.”

Glances darted among the four men. Harry Hopkins spoke up in a weak
hoarse voice, “Well, Pug, I guess at this point the Germans at Stalingrad might agree with you.”

Standley gave Pug a peevish look. “The Russians are numerous and brave. Nobody disputes that. They’re also impossible. That’s the basic problem, and there’s a basic answer. Firmness and clarity.” Standley waved a bony finger at the tolerantly smiling President. “Words are wasted on them. It’s like dealing with beings from another planet. They understand only the language of deeds. Even that they can get wrong. I don’t think they understand Lend-Lease to this minute. It’s available, so they simply demand and demand, and grab and grab, like kids at a party where the ice cream and cake are free.”

Cocking his head, the President almost gaily replied, “Bill, did I ever tell you about my talk with Litvinov, way back in 1933? I was negotiating recognition of the Soviet Union with him. Well, I’d never dealt with such people before. Gracious, I got mad! It was over the issue of religious freedom for our nationals in Russia, as I recall. He was being slippery as an eel. I simply blew up at him. I’ve never forgotten his comeback, as cool as you please.

“He said, ‘Mr. President, right after our revolution, your people and mine could hardly communicate. You were still one hundred percent capitalistic, and we had dropped to zero.’ “ Roosevelt spread his meaty hands vertically in the air, far apart.” ‘Since then we’ve come up to here, to about twenty, and you’ve come down to about eighty. In the years to come I believe we’ll narrow it to sixty and forty.’ “ The President’s hands converged. “ ‘We may not get any closer,’ he said, ‘but across that gap we’ll communicate quite well.’ Now Bill, I see Litvinov’s words coming true in this war.”

“So do I,” said Hopkins.

Standley fairly snapped at Hopkins, “You fellows don’t stay long. Their company manners are fine with you vodka visitors. Working with them day to day is something else. Now, Mr. President, I know my time’s up. Let me summarize, and I’ll take my leave.” He ticked off brisk pleas for stricter administration of Lend-Lease, for promotion of his attaches, and for direct control by the embassy of visiting VIPs. He mentioned Wendell Willkie with special abhorrence, and shot Hopkins a sour look. Nodding, smiling, Roosevelt promised Standley that it would all be done. As the two admirals went out, Standley gave Pug a pat on the shoulder and a crabbed grin.

Sighing, the President pressed a button. “Let’s have some lunch. You too, Pug?”

“Sir, my wife just gave me a late breakfast of fresh trout.”

“You don’t say! Trout! Well, I call
that
a nice welcome! How is Rhoda? Such an elegant and pretty woman.”

“She’s well, Mr. President. She hoped you’d remember her.”

“Oh, she’s hard to forget.” Taking off his pince-nez and rubbing his purple-rimmed eyes, Franklin Roosevelt said, “Pug, when I heard from SecNav about your boy, Warren, I felt terrible. That’s the one I never met. Is Rhoda bearing up?”

The old politician’s trick of remembering first names, and the sudden reference to his dead son, threw Pug off balance. “She’s fine, sir.”

“That was a remarkable victory at Midway, Pug. It was all due to brave youngsters like Warren. They saved our situation in the Pacific.” The President abruptly changed his tone and manner from the warmest sympathy to straight business. “But see here, we’ve lost far too many warships around Guadalcanal in night actions. Haven’t we? How is that? Are the Japs better night fighters than we are?”

“No, sir!” Pug felt the question as a personal jab. Glad to get off the subject of Warren, he answered crisply, “They started the war at a much higher level of training. They were geared up and ready to go. We weren’t. Even so, we’ve stood them off. They’ve given up trying to reinforce Guadalcanal. We’re going to win there. I admit we have to do better in night gun battles, and we will.”

“I agree with all you say.” The President’s look was cold and penetrating. “But I was terribly worried for a while there, Pug. I thought we might have to pull out of Guadalcanal. Our people would have taken that very hard. The Australians would simply have panicked. Nimitz did just the right thing, putting Halsey in there. That Halsey’s a tough bird.” The President was fitting a cigarette into his holder. “He’s done splendidly on a shoestring. Rescued the whole picture there.
One
operational carrier! Imagine! We’ll not be in that fix much longer, our production is starting to roll. It’s taken a year longer than it should have, Pug. But just as you say, they were plotting war, and I wasn’t! No matter what some newspapers keep hinting. Ah, here we are.”

The white-coated Negro steward wheeled in a servidor. Putting aside the cigarette holder, Roosevelt startled Pug by complaining, “Just
look
at this portion, will you? Three eggs, maybe four. Darn it all, Pug, you’re going to have to divide this with me. Serve it for two!” he ordered the steward. “Go ahead and have your soup, Harry. Don’t wait.”

The steward, looking scared, slid out a shelf from a corner of the desk, pulled up a chair, and served Victor Henry eggs, toast, and coffee, while Hopkins listlessly spooned soup from a bowl on a tray in his lap.

“This is more like it,” said Franklin Roosevelt, eagerly starting to eat. “Now you can tell your grandchildren, Pug, that you shared a Presidential lunch. And maybe the staff will get the idea, once for all, that I don’t like wasteful portions. It’s a constant battle.” The loose lukewarm eggs lacked salt and pepper. Pug ate them down, feeling historically privileged if not at all hungry.

“Say, Pug,” said Hopkins in a faded voice, “we ran into a heck of a shortage of landing craft for North Africa. There was talk of a crash program to turn them out, and your name came up. But now the invasion’s a success, and the U-boat problem has gotten more acute. So destroyer escorts are the number one shipyard priority. Nevertheless, the landing craft problem won’t go away, so —”

“Absolutely not,” the President cut in, dropping his fork with a clunk. “It haunts every discussion of the invasion of France. I remember our talks way back in August’41, Pug, aboard the
Augusta
before I went to meet Churchill. You knew your stuff. One forceful man riding herd on the landing craft program for the Navy, with my full backing, is what I need. But here old Bill Standley has come along, quite by coincidence, and asked for you as a special military aide.” Roosevelt glanced up over the rim of his coffee cup. “Do you have a preference?”